surfacetoday

We trawled our little creepy-crawlies along the branches
of light
that wound down and in criss-crossed patchwork across
our sky.

We stutter-breathed
and haltingly pled
for soon death and identification of the exactness of our (+violin)
misery.

I hear your little ties as snaps in the colossal wind cutting branches down
through hellish low valleys
brimmed with uneven blood
and spoken souls.

Popping, bubbling, hot, spiced, kidding, teeth, New Plagues: insomnia
frogs raining
redmarker’d children.

Corn, slash, yellow cab, door-to-door murder, death, dental-teeth, New Pleas: love
lying broken
fucking whispers.

Crumbling instruments rise now in our new hooked herione song
that snaps its edge-fangs
at your yellow, nicotine skin.

Everyone’s own color is exact now,
the butcher checked his upsetting smile
and instead wipes a careful knife across his forehead,
with a grin the size of Texas.

And all God’s green pastures lie later and later
everymorning.

The wine streak-stained red ink upon one’s lips after a careful night of avoided
death
feel so dry in the morning. I should think that the thoughts you wear then would be extra
thick.
And unavoidable.

But we are not perfect,
and the light will tumble heavily to our laps with lapses in our carefully plotted religion.

It is vested as burnt ink upon our skin
and gold strokes of the simple morning, which rise so early
and hate the very words we speak.

But the morning we do not hate, we do not rise and snap at
we are larger than its utter movement and
sensory philandering.

__________________
Eat shit and poop it out, then repeat ten million times til you become a saggy old basset hound.

www.myspace.com/jakeharms
for music, writing stuff

Severn

Well here I am, reading past the first two lines. :p

Some of these lines just pop, like:

It is vested as burnt ink upon our skin
and gold strokes of the simple morning, which rise so early
and hate the very words we speak

and

Crumbling instruments rise now in our new hooked herione song
that snaps its edge-fangs
at your yellow, nicotine skin

Lovely stuff.

I also appreciate the combination of short vs very long lines. That can be risky, but in this case, it adds to the feeling of a loose sprawl throughout the poem. Long sounds, long lines - there's a languidness about it, covering over a feeling of violence. Over all, it reads very bitter, very bruised. There are parts I just can't connect to other parts. It's one of those pieces that I feel you have to be in the head of the author, or have it all spelled out, to fully get.

As to the writing itself: I find myself asking questions

The (+violin) intrigues me, what does it refer to? What are the creepy-crawlies and the branches of light, and so forth.

I think it could do with some fine-tuning, a trimming down to its bare essentials. You have so much going on, that some of the impact could get lost amongst all the imagery. For instance:

The wine streak-stained red ink upon one’s lips after a careful night of avoided
death
feel so dry in the morning. I should think that the thoughts you wear then would be extra
thick.
And unavoidable.

I think you could lose the 'and unavoidable'; that not only tightens it, but loses the repetition with 'avoided' in the first line.

And here:

But as we are not perfect,
and never were,
and the light will tumble heavily to our laps with lapses in our carefully plotted religion.

You could do without the 'and never were' which is unnecessary, and belabours your point. It could become something like:

But as we are not perfect,
the light will tumble heavily to our laps with lapses in our carefully plotted religion.

If you have a thing against 2 line stanzas it would need reordering.

Otherwise, I'm liking it.

surfacetoday

Creepy-crawlies:
just exactly how little, fleshy, ugly things are.

You are right about
'never were'
It sucks.

Branches of light: could they be lucidity... or just the streams let through morning curtains... or just bullshit?

This is a walking dream.

__________________
Eat shit and poop it out, then repeat ten million times til you become a saggy old basset hound.

www.myspace.com/jakeharms
for music, writing stuff

Severn

Heh. This reminds me of the long, meandering poems I sometimes write. When I go back to edit I find lines and I think 'god, what was I thinking? What the hell did I put that there for? Get back, get back, evil poem spirit!'

I think sometimes we just waffle on...get caught up in that poem-writing feeling, and let it all slip in there, whether it's warranted or not.

Good to know it doesn't make sense to you either, that's fantastic. No, seriously, I like poems that are open to interpretation. This got me thinking, and I like that.

surfacetoday

Oh I know.

But some of it's just feeling.

And everything has a purpose.

So, if you'd like I could break it down line by line...
but that wouldn't be any fun, now would it?

And I'm glad it got you thinking; it just closed me up.

__________________
Eat shit and poop it out, then repeat ten million times til you become a saggy old basset hound.

www.myspace.com/jakeharms
for music, writing stuff

aubie84

[quote=surfacetoday;1015781]But as we are not perfect,
and the light will tumble heavily to our laps with lapses in our carefully plotted religion.

One word: Dayum!!!!!!!

aubie84

surfacetoday

um
thanks?

__________________
Eat shit and poop it out, then repeat ten million times til you become a saggy old basset hound.

www.myspace.com/jakeharms
for music, writing stuff